


Reliving My Youth

by gimmefire



Category: Green Day
Genre: Angst, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-22
Updated: 2006-03-22
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmefire/pseuds/gimmefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Takes place nowish. Hopefully you’ll be able to guess where this is set by the end. Helps to know about Lookout! And pre-Lookout!-era Green Day, and more specifically, the places and people associated with that era. Nice and vague, innit.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Reliving My Youth

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place nowish. Hopefully you’ll be able to guess where this is set by the end. Helps to know about Lookout! And pre-Lookout!-era Green Day, and more specifically, the places and people associated with that era. Nice and vague, innit.

He gagged only slightly as the cockhead pushed down into his throat; he always did. His partner never minded, it only ever made their hips jerk in pleasant response. He was used to it, so were they. So what if he hadn’t done this for a long time - it’s not as if it was something you’d ever forget.

_Like riding a bicycle made out of cock, or something._

But back to this. Back to the dick he was swallowing down, that was pressing hot and heavy against his tongue. Eyes closed, focussing solely on that dirty, scandalous sensation. If only for where he was. _Who_ he was. Oh the scandal, if only they knew...but here, nobody cared. After all, right here right now, all Billie was to them was a heated mouth, a pair of moist lips, an expert tongue. And all they were to Billie, well...

He almost lapsed his attention enough to open his eyes, but he caught himself. Instead, a shaky hand raised to grip fitfully at a strong thigh. Throat muscles working other man’s length, he couldn’t help but whine softly, stomach boiling as the taste of pre-come hit him. He shifted his weight, bent legs beginning to ache, knees cold and numb from the tiled floor. But fuck, it felt good to ache. Felt good to need and ache and be dirty and shameful.

A low, rolling growl emerged from the other man, strong hand coming to rest on Billie’s covered head as it bobbed, lips and mouth and, occasionally, teeth sliding wet and tight over the sensitive flesh. He was doing well, it told him. That shaky hand moved to fumble at his own pants, freeing his neglected erection. He let out a wanton little moan as familiar callused fingers wrapped around his cock, shuddering, mind spinning with all the sensations. He felt his asshole twitch, needy, as some little synapse in his brain sparked with the memory that once, a long time ago, it would have gotten the attention it called for.

Another, tighter noise reached his ears, fingertips digging into his head by way of warning. It was late, however, and bare seconds later, hips jerked sharp once, twice, and heat spilled down his throat. He swallowed greedily, sucking hard and fast, as if to drain every drop of seed he could. Jerking himself off with the same rough speed, he came with a high, wet sob, the sound bleeding from his throat as he pulled off the other man’s softening cock. His mind clogged and intoxicated with flashes of sharp hipbones, a skinny frame, a dirty t-shirt, scratchy moans and eyes wise beyond their years.

Stars of pleasure burst in his head as he slumped back, head hitting the flimsy plywood wall with a dull thunk. Tremors rippled through his body as his orgasm ebbed out of him; they always did.

He heard the rustle of paper and felt something brush his thigh. It was only then that he opened his eyes.

They came to eventual focus on the floor, this filthy tiled floor. On his denim-wrapped thighs, on his come-spattered hand on his flaccid dick. And on the two crumpled notes beside him.

 _Voila_ , the illusion is gone.

Billie raised his head, clouded, unpainted hazel eyes peeking out from under a low-pulled beanie hat, up at the other man. The tall, red-haired, stocky punk finished buttoning his bondage pants, quirking a wry eyebrow in Billie’s direction.

"There ya go, Two Dollar Bill." he murmured gruffly, last three words holding a streak of sardonic amusement.

Billie didn’t reply. He just looked away, licking subtly at the last traces of come in the corner of his mouth. The punk gave a snuffing laugh, sliding the worn cubicle lock aside and swinging open the door. He left without another word.

Billie sat there for a few moments, thinking of nothing. His vacant eyes travelled along the graffiti-scrawled walls of the toilet cubicle, an OPIV here, an MTX there, one inch a poem, another a statement...all so familiar.

_Walls must be made of fucking steel and Chuck Norris, they’ve been there so long, they must be indestructible._

Automatically, his eyes were drawn to words carved in the bottom corner of the opposite wall. Old and wearing away, but still there.

LINT 4 JESSE.

Crudely done, most likely by neither of the named. And they left a little someone out of that equation, not that he’d gone around shouting about it or anything, but...

But it was too late now.

_No Lint. No Jesse. Just me. Kinda ironic, thinking about it._

He reached for the last few shreds of toilet paper, tearing them from the roll and cleaning himself, before picking up the crumpled dollars and stuffing them in his pocket. He zipped his fly and made a move to get up, wincing and grunting as his muscles complained raucously. He stopped and looked up as a shadow fell over him.

Another man, younger this time, must’ve been mid-twenties. Younger than Billie by a good stretch. Black Mohawk climbing for the skies from his pale head. He looked blankly down at Billie and held up two dollars.

A second, and Billie looked down, jerking his head by way of invitation.

_Ah, youth._

When we’re young, we waste it. When we’re old, we spend every moment chasing it.


End file.
